


Better?

by Amelia_Clark



Series: Cursed or Not [3]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: (heh heh), Anal Sex, Episode: s08e07 A Little Slice of Kevin, I paraphrased Buffy again, Inserted Scene, M/M, Oral Sex, Schmoop, Smooching, Top!Cas, bottom!Dean, excessive attention to set detail, poor Sam exits stage left again
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-06
Updated: 2014-05-06
Packaged: 2018-01-23 20:05:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,227
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1577819
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Amelia_Clark/pseuds/Amelia_Clark
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's just that it’s Cas again, finally: full-decked, clean-shaven, tax-accountant-chic and all, like he hasn't seen him in goddamn years. And he should have questions, he knows he should, and probably does somewhere under the fog of lust; but mostly what he has is a raging boner, and a mouth gone dry, and <i>need</i> pouring off of him so hot and potent, Cas can probably see it, shimmering like a profane halo.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Better?

Dean shifts in his chair, hoping to God Sam doesn't notice the sudden bulge in his jeans—though from the half-smile he gives Dean, he knows more than he lets on. (He can't know about the Purgatory blowjob, right? Shit, what if Dean talks in his sleep?)

It's just that it’s Cas again, finally: full-decked, clean-shaven, tax-accountant-chic and all, like he hasn't seen him in goddamn years. And he should have questions, he knows he should, and probably does somewhere under the fog of lust; but mostly what he has is a raging boner, and a mouth gone dry, and _need_ pouring off of him so hot and potent, Cas can probably see it, shimmering like a profane halo.

"Uh, Sam?" Dean says, with a silent thanks that his voice doesn't crack, "I think you need to go somewhere. Uh, elsewhere. I think Cas and I need to talk? Here, take the car." He digs the Impala's keys out of his suddenly tight jeans, tosses them to Sam. "Just, uh, give us an hour? Or something. Go see a movie."

"You gonna give me a nickel for ice cream or what?" says Sam, half-smiling.

"Shut up," says Dean. "An hour. Hour and a half."

Sam shrugs, grabs his jacket. "Bye, Cas," he says. "It's really good to see you again."

"Likewise, Sam." It's the first Cas has spoken since the reveal, and Dean hopes he's not fooling himself about the rough undercurrent in his voice.

Dean's across the room before the door clicks shut—and while he means to just grab Cas, push him against the wall, kiss him senseless, some part of him holds back. Because he's done that. They've done that, the furious rush to orgasm, twice now; why waste the room, this precious time? So while he does slam him with enough force to knock the ugly picture off the wall, send the ugly lamp to the floor with a crash, he ends up with his arms tight around Cas, face buried in his shoulder, just breathing him in. He smells of hotel shampoo and sunlight.

"I left you," he says, muffled by the trenchcoat. "I fucking left you behind, again. Cas, I’m—I’m sorry.”

“Dean,” Cas says quietly, “you’ve done nothing to apologize for.” He’s got one hand spread on the small of Dean’s back, the other stroking his hair so gently, like he’s something fragile. Like he’s not broken already.

You know that’s not true, Dean wants to say, but instead: “How? How did you get out?"

"I don't know," Cas says. "Whatever happened, it was not by my own agency." He hesitates, his hand pausing on the nape of Dean's neck. "Coming to you, that was."

Dean pulls back to look into his eyes. "We're gonna need to talk," he says, struggling to keep his voice even. "We've got stuff to work through, I don’t even know what all. But...can we just skip it for now? Can I just kiss you?"

Cas doesn't say anything, just pulls Dean in the last few inches. For the first time, their kiss is soft, lips brushing past each other instead of devouring, tongues tangling without force. It makes Dean giddy, to be able to do this, to taste the angel at leisure, to be tasted with gentle, maddening precision. "God," he whispers, "if you just wanna make out for an hour and a half, Cas, that's fine with me. Better than fine."

"It's incredible, Dean, yes," says Cas, then slides his mouth to the spot beneath Dean's jaw where his pulse throbs, speaking straight into his heartbeat. "You're incredible. But you told me once you wanted more from me. And here we are, with a bed, and a shower, and time. If you still wish me to fuck you, now would be a good occasion to do so."

Dean whimpers, twists his hands in Cas's lapels, and drags them both in the general direction of Dean's bed—after a few stumbling steps, Cas stops their progress. "I would prefer your explicit verbal consent before we proceed," he says, holding Dean in place by his hips.

"Freaking angel rules," mutters Dean. "Yeah, I'm saying yes. You want explicit? I want your cock in me, Cas, want you to work me open slow, slide balls-deep, fuck me hard till my eyes roll back in my head. OK? That work for you?"

It's Cas's turn to whimper, though his low-pitched voice makes it more of a growl. He grabs at Dean's ass and boosts him up; Dean wraps his legs around him instinctively, winding his limbs around the angel while he nibbles his neck. 

Cas deposits him none-too-gently on the closest bed and stands back to remove his coat and suit jacket, followed by his tie. He untucks his shirt, unbuttons his cuffs. "Not gonna do your stripper mojo again, huh?" asks Dean, shrugging out of his overshirt. He's got his T-shirt raised halfway when Cas bends down and grabs his wrist. 

"No, I'd like to take your clothes off more gradually this time. But if it's all right with you, Dean, I'd like to do it myself."

"'S fine, yeah," Dean murmurs, and lets Cas press him back into the sagging mattress, closing his eyes to focus on their few points of contact: Cas's knees between his own, his hands gliding over Dean's ribcage, his tongue flickering over Dean's bottom lip before slipping into his mouth.

They lose themselves in kissing again—such a simple, profound connection, like a new level of conversation. Dean's always been better at communicating with his body instead of words, and his mouth working against Cas's shapes the things he's too chickenshit to say out loud, hoping Cas will understand. They separate for a second while Cas wrestles Dean's shirt off, and then he's kissing down Dean's neck, licking his collarbones, finding a nipple to suck until Dean shudders.

Cas pushes his knees further apart and runs his hands up his thighs to rest over the thick line of his cock. "That's for me," he says, and it's not a come-on, just a statement of fact.

"Yeah it is, baby," moans Dean, lifting his hips a little. "Been hard since I saw you all cleaned up. Been wanting you."

"I know," says Cas. "I can see your soul reaching out for me."

"Really?"

"Oh, yes. It's not quite as you would see something—I can't describe it in a way you could fully understand. But your soul is always present to me, Dean." Cas presses the heel of his palm to Dean's cock, thumb ticking along the teeth of his zipper. "I can feel it when I touch you." He bends to flick his tongue over Dean's other nipple. "I can taste it, Dean. All my senses are filled with you."

Dean's got no response more coherent than a whimper, as Cas goes on to lick the length of each rib, works his fly open and sticks a hand inside. It's the first time Cas has actually touched his cock, Dean realizes with a jolt—but he's not tentative at all, wrapping his fingers around the shaft and pumping while his thumb toys with the head. He moves down Dean's body, mouth hot on his stomach; he tugs at Dean's waistband with his teeth before looking up at him with lust-glazed eyes. "May I use my mouth?" he asks. Dean nods so hard he makes himself dizzy for a second.

So Cas takes Dean's pants off, frowning a little with annoyance when he has to get out from between his legs to do so. He peels off his socks as an afterthought, then repositions himself, crouching between Dean's knees, staring down at his hard-on with something approaching awe. There's a lot Dean wants to say—“just do it" and "stop looking at me like that" and "fuck you're beautiful I think I've been in love with you for years"—but all he manages is _"Please."_

Then Cas's mouth is on his cock, sliding down to meet his hand, and the sweet friction of it draws a helpless groan out of Dean. He tugs at Cas's hair, lifting his hips in wordless entreaty, and Cas takes in a little more of him, making pleased little hums while he plays Dean like a musical instrument, like a harp. Does Cas have a harp? Dean wonders. He doesn't have a halo. It's his last thought for a while that isn't some variation of _yes._

He feels something slip through Cas's lips next to him, and realizes it's his thumb; soon, it moves wet down over his balls, tracing his perineum before circling his (oh God he's got no good euphemisms for this he's just gonna have to think it) asshole. Cas presses in, teasing, and Dean's surprised to find himself whining and shoving his ass towards him. Carefully, Cas pushes in, and Dean sucks in a sharp breath. "Am I hurting you?" Cas asks, pulling off Dean’s cock with a worried expression.

"No, not really?" pants Dean, trying to figure out how to describe the sensation. He's explored himself a little recently, getting his whole lubed index finger up there, but it's strange having someone else do it. Not bad, just...strange, cause sex has always been a thing that took place outside of him, and it’s different this way: he can't hide, he can't detach. "It's a little weird," he tells Cas finally. "But I’ll be fine. Uhm, do you wanna get the lube out of my bag? That'll help."

Dean lies naked on the bed, fighting the urge to cover himself up while he watches Cas walk across the room. He's still in his button-down and suit pants—he even has his shoes on—and Dean's so exposed in contrast, knees folded up, hard as a rock and glistening with spit. "Hey, Cas, can you get a condom, too? I just...I've watched too many women trying to walk to the bathroom with their thighs locked, it looks pretty gross."

"Of course." Cas puts the supplies on the bed next to Dean and unbuttons his shirt, tossing it in the pile with Dean's clothes. His eyes are fixed on Dean, hungry as his mouth when he crawls back on top of him, kissing him like he's starved for it. Dean's so wrapped up in the feeling, their tongues meeting like two beating hearts, that he barely notices a finger slipping back into him; but the second, a few minutes later, makes his hold his breath again while Cas stills to let him adjust, dropping small, comforting kisses at the corners of his eyes and lips. "Tell me when you're ready, Dean," he whispers. "Tell me when you want more."

"I want _you,_ Cas, come on, _why are you still fucking wearing fucking pants?!"_ It's an insupportable state of affairs, and if Dean weren't shaking with anticipation he'd be able to get his fly undone on the first try, but the stupid hook thing keeps getting away from his fingers. With Cas's help, though, he triumphs, and then _ohhhhh_ there's all that skin again, and he's making desperate, high-pitched noises in the back of his throat, and then Cas's cock is right THERE and he's INSIDE him and Dean just feels himself opening, welcoming, clutching at him like he'll never let go.

 _“Dean,”_ Cas murmurs in his ear, thrusting in slowly, “you feel so good.” 

And it’s there again in his tone, that baffling note of reverence, and Dean asks before he can stop himself, “Why do you say my name like that? Like it’s a prayer. What are you asking for?”

“Nothing,” says Cas, surprised. “I suppose it does sound like that, but it’s not—it’s not a petition, Dean. I only want from you what you’re willing to give,” as he plunges deeper. “I think what you hear is gratitude. I am so blessed to know you, Dean. This—to be with you like this—it’s more than I ever dreamed.”

“Uhm, _oh God, yeah,_ me too,” Dean says, hips rolling helplessly. And while he’s saying things he doesn’t mean to, might as well: “I love you, you know that, right?”

“I do. You’ve told me a hundred ways before now.” Cas starts moving faster, the angle of his pelvis grazing his cock over Dean’s prostate; it’s almost enough to make him come all on its own, but then he’s jerking him off, too, with long sure strokes, and Dean spills over his fist with a sob. Not long after, Cas just stops, full length inside him, and lets out a sigh, his head dropping to Dean’s shoulder.

They lie locked together while they catch their breath, until Dean shifts beneath him. “We should probably get dressed,” he says. “Sam’ll probably be back—wait, what time is it?” The clock radio on the nightstand tells him only half an hour has passed, and he laughs. Easy to forget how mind-blowing sex doesn’t really take that long. “Well, we should probably wash off at least. You wanna go first?”

“I don’t want to move,” says Cas, nosing at his jaw. “Can we just stay here a little longer? I have—I need to tell you something.”

“Yeah, OK, angel,” Dean says, one hand carding through Cas’s sweat-damp hair. “Talk to me.”

**Author's Note:**

> “Their tongues met like two beating hearts” is a quote from Poppy Z. Brite’s [_Lost Souls,_](http://www.indiebound.org/book/9780440212812?aff=annaperl) my fav vampire novel as a teen. It has a lot more blowjobs than _Twilight._


End file.
